A difficult life for anyone, never mind people as sensitive as artists.
He suspected living like that created fear. And fear begat anger and enough anger over enough time led to a dead woman in a garden.
Yes, Armand Gamache had a great deal of time for artists. But he was under no illusion about what they were capable of. Great creation, and great destruction.
“When did Lillian leave Montréal?” Beauvoir asked.
“I don’t know and I don’t care,” said Paulette.
“Did you care that she was back?” asked Beauvoir.
“Would you?” Paulette glared at Beauvoir. “I kept my distance. We all knew what she’d done, what she was capable of. You don’t want to be in those sights.”
“He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function,” said Normand.
“Pardon?” asked Beauvoir.
“It’s a line from one of her critiques,” said Paulette. “She’s famous for it. It got picked up by the wire services and the review went international.”
“Who was she writing about?” Beauvoir asked.
“That’s the funny thing,” said Paulette, “everyone remembers the quote, but no one remembers the artist.”
Both Beauvoir and Gamache knew that wasn’t true.
He’s a natural, producing art like it’s a bodily function.
Clever, almost a compliment. But then it veered into a scathing dismissal.
Someone would remember that review.
The artist himself.
SEVEN
Armand Gamache and Jean Guy Beauvoir stepped down from the wide, sweeping verandah of the B and B onto the path.
It was a warm day and Beauvoir was thirsty.
“Drink?” he suggested to the Chief, knowing it was a pretty safe bet. But Gamache surprised him.
“In a few minutes. There’s something I need to do first.” The two men paused at the dirt road. The day was going from warm to almost hot. Some of the early white irises in the flower beds around the village green had opened fully, and then some. Almost exploding, exposing their black centers.
It seemed to Beauvoir a confirmation. Inside every living thing, no matter how beautiful, if opened fully enough was darkness.
“I find it interesting that Normand and Paulette knew Lillian Dyson,” said Gamache.
“Why’s that interesting?” asked Beauvoir. “Isn’t it what you’d expect? After all they hang around the same crowd. Did twenty-five years ago, and did a few months ago. It would’ve been surprising if they didn’t know each other.”
“True. What I find interesting is that neither François Marois nor André Castonguay admitted to knowing her. How could Normand and Paulette know Lillian, but Marois and Castonguay not?”
“They probably didn’t move in the same circles,” suggested Beauvoir.
They walked away from the B and B and toward the hill out of Three Pines. Beauvoir took off his jacket, but the Chief kept his on. It would take more than a merely warm day to get him to walk around in his shirtsleeves.
“There aren’t that many circles in the Québec art scene,” said Gamache. “And while the dealers might not be personal friends with everyone, they’d be sure to at least be aware of them. If not today, then back twenty years, when Lillian was a critic.”
“So they were lying,” said Beauvoir.
“That’s what I’m going to find out. I’d like you to check on progress at the Incident Room. Why don’t we meet at the bistro,” Gamache looked at his watch, “in about forty-five minutes.”
The two men parted, Beauvoir pausing to watch the Chief walk up the hill. His gait strong.
He himself made his way across the village green toward the Incident Room. As he walked across the grass he slowed, then veered off to his right. And sat on the bench.
“Hello, dick-head.”
“Hello, you old drunk.”
Ruth Zardo and Jean Guy Beauvoir sat side-by-side, a loaf of stale bread between them. Beauvoir took a piece, broke it up and threw it on the grass for the robins gathered there.
“What’re you doing? That’s my lunch.”
“We both know you haven’t chewed lunch in years,” Beauvoir snapped. Ruth chuckled.
“That is true. Still, you owe me a meal now.”
“I’ll buy you a beer later.”
“So what brings you back to Three Pines?” Ruth tossed more bread for the birds, or at the birds.
“The murder.”
“Oh, that.”
